


Dust on the Road.

by Velvetoscar



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Barista Louis, Fluff, Lottie has a crush on Harry, M/M, Mild Angst, Mild drug mentions, Teacher Harry, past zouis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 09:08:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6899842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velvetoscar/pseuds/Velvetoscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is definitely fine and Lottie is definitely crushing on her French teacher, and these two things have nothing to do with each other. Except they do. And Louis is not fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust on the Road.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mustardnomilk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustardnomilk/gifts).



> Well, I hope this wasn't a total disappointment? I tried my best but my weird, angsty ass just couldn't listen to directions. I apologize if this was The Worst. 
> 
> For the prompt about Harry being the French teacher. You know the one :)
> 
> Nothing in this is based off of real life. Everything's made up--even the ages and names of some. Things are more fun in fiction.

Louis Tomlinson enjoys a good movie, sure. He does. He’s not even opposed to watching it more than once. Hell, he’ll even watch it three times, if it’s good enough; he’s generous.

But for Christ’s sake. _Moulin Rouge_ is just not good enough to warrant seven goddamn views in four days.

“LOTTIE,” he bellows from the shower, after the fourth consecutive rewind of ‘ _Lady Marmalade’_ , “CAN YOU GIVE IT A REST? Goddamn. Don’t you have headphones or…some shit?”

Even amidst the billowing steam and deafening stream of the showerhead, he can still practically hear his sister’s teeth bare into a snarl—one Louis is well acquainted with himself; they are oh-so-very related.

“Piss off!” she shouts, as any doting sister would, and Louis just sighs through the suds of his shitty bar soap that smells like warm plastic.

Why, oh why, did he ever choose to move back home after living The Good Life™ in London? (Oh, wait. Maybe it’s cuz he actually began to sort of hate that life and, consequently, broke up with Zayn after, erm, four years, was it? Oh yes, that’s why*.)

*Details.

But whatever, he’s patient, and he’s promised to be Mr. Mom to his six (six. _six_ ) younger siblings, now that Will’s fuckered off and left his mum alone. Because, yeah, that’s also a thing—much like Louis, his mother has also undergone some life changes in the past year, her life has also been upended. And that’s what made it so easy to come back here, honestly.

It’s almost nice that Louis and her are both newly-single, in a sick and twisted way. Kinda nice, keeping each other afloat, developing a sort of camaraderie that feels like a friendship. Leaning on each other for the little tedious shit that somehow feels even more tedious these days. Making awkward breakup jokes that are most likely too soon (but their family never really had any tact anyway, so it doesn’t matter in the slightest to either of them). It’s that sorta vibe. Free and callous and bitter and a little secretly lost. A lot rebelliously independent. It’s kinda like a Bachelor Pad, except it’s not. At all.

Anyway. Louis is patient. He can deal with his seventeen year-old sister’s obsessions, whatever. At least it’s better than fourteen-year-old Louis’ strange fascination with _Cats!_ the musical. There was a solid 365 days there, where he smoked copious amounts of weed, painted whiskers on his cheeks with his baby sisters’ bubblegum eyeliner, and crooned _‘Memory’_ in the dark whenever he was suffering from one of his many [frivolous] teen breakups. Actually, come to think of it, that might’ve also been the year he dabbled in hallucinogenics for the first time…

Aaaanyway. Yes. Lottie is definitely manageable.

So he just clambers to his room, a white cotton towel wrapped around his waist that does nothing to collect the drips that pour from his soggy hair, and begins to get dressed in Day Off clothes (a rare occurrence) because the day is young, he’s got shit-all to do, and time doesn’t stop. Hm. Maybe he should listen to ‘ _Time_ ’ by Pink Floyd. Maybe that would be some kind of symbolic gesture of how his life is continuing. Maybe it would enlighten him to New Beginnings and Serenity despite the fact that he’s in his mid-twenties and living at home. Or! Maybe he’ll stop having an overly dramatic inner monologue that prompts him to have existential crises every five goddamn minutes, and maybe he’ll just get dressed and go downstairs and grab some lunch. Maybe.

He’s about to do just that, when suddenly he hears the bathroom door close and the shower promptly start. Nothing is substantial about this moment; that is, until the water-against-porcelain pitter patter is suddenly overpowered by a stunningly horrendous rendition of ‘ _Lady Marmalade’_ , sung by none other than seventeen-year-old Charlotte Tomlinson.

And Louis is patient, alright? We’ve established that—he is. But the thing is, is that it’s his day off and he’s had the collected hits from the Major Motion Picture Soundtrack to _Moulin goddamn Rouge_ on loop in his head for almost a _week_ now. And his younger sister (who is still a wee babe in his mind, thank you) is currently in the shower, singing unbearably loud, and right now, Louis Tomlinson is undergoing a moment of self-actualization in which he realizes that this song is basically just Lottie screeching about asking someone to have sex with her. In French.

It’s a lot at once.

So, more than mildly disturbed, Louis walks up to the bathroom, nose to door, and deadpans through the crack, “Please stop singing and never sing again, thank you.”

Surprisingly, the screech-singing stops, replaced by the lone, steady stream of the showerhead. Then:

“If you don’t like it, then don’t listen!” Lottie shouts back simply, and with finality. Undeterred, she goes back to trilling away in very poor French.

_Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, se soir?_

Is that even grammatically correct?

Louis rolls his neck (with patience), as he inspects his nails absently. The tattoos on his fingers are beginning to fade—the ones that his ex did when he first began dabbling in tattoo artistry. How symbolic. His hand twitches then, as if it can sense its need for his sketchbook quicker than Louis’ self-awareness can. It’s like Pavlov’s dogs: oh, there’s emotion in the air? Fingers need a Sharpie. Time to scribble some nonsensical doodles about things fading, yay, how functional.

Anyway. Back to Lottie and her shitty French and shitty singing skills. (Sibling love at its finest.)

“To be fair, Lotts,” he begins casually, lips twitching as his brain lodges itself back into his body; the singing halts once more, much to his satisfaction, “it’s kinda hard to ignore the sound of a barn owl being slaughtered in the sanctity of my own home. You’re kinda loud.”

Another brief pause. Then:

“I’m _not_ a barn owl, you arsehole. Just let me live!” He hears her dramatic sigh, her _ugh_ of exasperation. (Teenagers, honestly.) “Besides, this is actually useful for my future. I’m practicing my French for school.”

At that, Louis can only purse his lips, his face too exasperated to do much else, as his hand drops back to his side and brushes his bare thigh, reminding him that he hasn’t put on trackies yet and needs to ASAP. He lives with family and children now—can’t keep walking around looking indecent anymore. “I’m sorry, but as your older brother, I can verify that you will never, ever need to use that sentence in school,” he deadpans. “Thank you and goodbye.”

But as he’s walking back to his room, he can clearly hear her casually toss out a, “Well, then you clearly haven’t been to my class…” and a little piece of him dies inside.

Gross. He’s never giving his siblings permission to grow past the age of ten ever again.

**

So, like, life is very simple for Louis Tomlinson. It is.

Because his entire existence now consists of going to work at the café down the street from his sisters’ school, hanging out with his good ol’ buddy pals during his free time (Liam and Niall—two utter tosspots that he loves dearly, despite their awful habits and awful influences; then again, one could argue that Louis might be the worst influence of them all……), and taking care of his family in the most basic, routine ways. It’s all simple, it’s low maintenance, and it’s actually surprisingly nice—especially in comparison to the life he was living.

And honestly, considering that Louis’ only been back home for under six months, he’s rather alarmed at how easy it all is. How fast he’s moved on. How strangely comfortable he is. Simple. And, sure, the last time he lived at home, he was about…seventeen? Maybe eighteen for a month or two? And now he’s twenty-three, so it’s been a fair amount of time since he’s had to make egg on toast at the arse-crack of dawn for a bunch of young, messy girls (and now one boy). Maybe that’s why the whole thing has a bit of charm to it. There’s something very useful and satisfying about wiping syrup off of small, young hands, about kissing the tops of satin-soft strands of hair, about making sure they all drink up their water, chew slowly… And he enjoys helping his mum—lord knows, she’s helped him enough in life. And he just loves his family at the end of the day, really.

Breaking up with Zayn and leaving London was difficult, yes. It really, really was. And when he first stepped back through the door of his childhood home, wearing his worn-out Doc Martens and carrying bags that felt too small to hold his entire life, he had thought he was probably, maybe, going to lose his everlasting goddamn fucking mind.

But now? Now he’s got a routine and he’s got stupid little crayon drawings pinned to the walls of his bedroom next to a poorly done family photo and a mysterious wad of half-chewed gum. Now he’s got new shoes and the same ol’ brown backpack that holds his same ol’ sketchbook, but it’s got new pages, new drawings, new meaning. Now he’s got tattoos that look more settled into his skin, he’s got hair that’s his natural color, that’s washed regularly, he’s got clothes that fit on his body, that fit in his dresser, he’s got a job and friends and family, and he’s got some peace. Loud, boring peace that fills the space behind his eyes and between his ears. Peace.

Well, mostly. Living with toddlers and teenagers isn’t exactly peaceful. Lottie is certainly…a _lot_ like him.

“What the hell are you even watching, child?” he asks, a little perplexed from her doorway; he’d just been passing by her room when he’d overheard her television spouting smooth gibberish. Considering the girl usually religiously sticks to watching Trashy Reality programs, it’s mildly unsettling and very out of character.

Lottie, however, seems completely at ease as she applies blood-red lipstick to her lips while sitting cross-legged atop her bed, hair pulled back in a twist. It makes her look older, a _lot_ older. Shit, she could pass for thirty-years-old... They grow up way too goddamn fast. Louis almost frowns.

“ _Amélie,_ ” she replies simply, puckering her lips in her handheld mirror.

At that, Louis blinks, now eyeing the newly-purchased poster of the Eiffel Tower above her headboard. So, at least there’s a theme. “Why…?” he drifts slowly, one eyebrow rising.

She shrugs, still focused on her lips. “For school.”

“Right.” He continues to watch her, eyes occasionally flicking around the room. There’s a beret on her nightstand. A picture of her and her best friend in a frame that says ‘C’est la vie!’ in generic cursive. Unable to resist, he chuckles under his breath as he leans further onto her doorframe, amusement kicking his lips up. “So you’re loving your French class, or summat? Truly moved by the language of Romance?”

“Hm, I guess,” she shrugs again, but a very gentle flush is evident on her neck.

Louis watches her, quiet, suspicion trickling in. “It’s a boy, isn’t it? _Of course_ it’s a boy,” he tries not to snort, delighting when Lottie immediately snaps her neck over to him, eyes widening. “You got some French kid that’s just moved here, yeah? All sexy and fourteen? With acne and an accent that could melt the _glace au chocolate_ he eats for breakfast? Yeah? Yeah, am I right?” 

But Lottie settles a bit, turning back to her mirror, schooling  her face into indifference despite the still-present flush on her skin. “Sure, Lou. Whatever,” she sighs, long-suffering. “But he doesn’t eat ice cream for breakfast, for god’s sake. Why are you always so weird?”

Faintly amused, Louis shrugs, righting himself as he peels away from the doorframe. “’S the only thing I could think of in French. Excuse me if my knowledge is a bit limited. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t think I even passed that course…” he hums contemplatively, and it makes Lottie snort, briefly catching his eye.

“Go away. Stop spying on me,” she says after a moment, but she’s still got a small smile on, her eyes a little fond. Playful, even. She’s a good kid. “Let me study. Go and…skateboard, or paint charcoal portraits, or whatever it is that you do.”

“Alright, one: you can’t paint with charcoal. You paint with paint,” he replies, shaking his head with all the road weariness of a worn traveler. Even though he’s not a worn traveler. “And, two: I call bullshit. ‘Let me study’, my arse. Watching some movie isn’t studying, at least not in my day—“

“Oh, hush!” she groans, but she’s laughing, tossing one of her fuzzy throw-pillows at him half-heartedly.

Naturally, he dodges it. “Good aim.”

Flopping onto her back, she glares at him from upside down, feet kicked up on her pillows. Her lips are red as blood and Louis’ gotta admit that it looks kinda sick. If this were a year ago, he’d probably start wearing it himself—claiming how he was ‘edgy’ and ‘artistically driven’ and all that other bullshit he used to spout.

He slips his hands into his pockets, keeping the frown at bay as his mind wanders back to the present.

“Leave,” she faux-glares, and it makes Louis smile a little, about to depart. “But, before you go? Would it be alright if I borrowed one of your striped t-shirts? The black and white one?”

Squinting, he studies her, wracking his brain. “The one I used to always wear when I was, like, sixteen? Do I even own that still?” 

Smug, she nods, flicking her attention back to the movie. “Of course you do.”

“And how would you know?”

“Because I already knicked it from your room,” she smiles sweetly, voice like honey. He’s so proud. She looks once more at him, the portrait of innocence. “Just wanted to get your permission for posterity.”

“Ah, yes. Posterity,” he nods solemnly, tossing back her throw pillow and delighting when it lands on her face. “Good child, good. I have trained you well.”

“Piss off,” she laughs once more, and Louis can only wave cheerfully as he trots away (before any more pillows can be rocket-launched at him), the smile slow to drip off his face.

Oh, the youth.

**

Just like home, work is also peaceful and chaotic; both at the same time. Apparently, Louis thrives in paradox.

It’s busy and fast-paced, working at a café, and the clientele can sometimes be a true test to Louis’ humanity; he never thought he would contemplate homicide as much as he’s come to. But, aside from the physical demands (which he actually enjoys, to be honest) and the emotionally demanding customer service, Louis finds that, overall, the job’s great. He gets bitchin’ tips, he has fun, he’s met his two best mates here (fellow baristas Niall Horan—the maddest and brashest of them all—and Liam James Payne—the most socially oblivious Bro™ that Louis has ever had the pleasure to befriend), and, best of all, it’s right by Lottie and Fizzy’s school. More often than not, one or both of them (usually Lottie, since Fizz has football practice) comes over and does a bit of homework while Louis works, then rides home with him after he clocks out. It’s a cute little routine and it’s provided some excellent sibling bonding time. They may be dramatic, they may be annoying, and they may be flighty, but Louis kinda adores the shit outta them. Don’t tell them.

But you know who Louis doesn’t adore right now?

Niall.

“It’s slow as shit here,” Louis sighs, tapping a metal spoon against the counter in a well-timed rhythm. He’s got a Rage Against the Machine song stuck in his head. He forgets the name, though—they all sound the same. (Zayn used to love them, listened to them nonstop. Louis quietly suffered.) “Let me go home, Hore.”

“I hate when you call me that as much as I love it when you call me that,” Niall mumbles absently as he fills out Supervisor shit in his roster.

After one week of knowing each other, Louis happily nicknamed Niall ‘The Hore’, playing off his very insubstantial last name. “Just sprucing it up, is all,” Louis had said at the time, blinking wide eyes and grinning innocently as he sipped at his black-as-mud cup of lukewarm coffee, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, still wreaking of the too-many cigarettes he’d smoked all morning. Niall had grimaced a bit, all clean with his popped collar and lips that pressed together in a warbly line as he eyed him up and down, golden-stubbled jaw set like stone. After thirty prolonged seconds, he finally broke. “The only reason you get away with this shit is because you’re charming and hot as fuck,” he’d monotoned, but he smirked a bit, patted Louis’ cheek, and kept doin’ his thing, whistling some obscure seventies One Hit Wonder.

And so they were mutually charmed and so they bonded. Best Friends for Life.

Now, however, Niall just sucks.

“Nobody’s even here. And you’ve got Liam,” Louis mutters as he stares sightlessly at the ground, adjusting his grey beanie; the finer strands of his growing hair are beginning to itch his ears a bit. Maybe he should shave it all off again. Or, maybe he should do that one haircut again—when he shaved the sides only. He looked cool as fuck when he did that, looked even cooler when he dyed it white-blonde and only wore black and leather. “You’re living, breathing art,” Zayn had claimed, proud, an ostentatiously vintage camera in his hands. Louis, at the time, had preened. “I know,” he’d said simply.

God, he was an idiot.

But, anyway.

“Just let me go home. ‘M tired.” Frowning, Louis looks down, fingers once again itching for his sketchbook. To sate them, he absently begins running a hand over his tattooed arm, over his faded (fading?) memories. Smoothing it all out. “You don’t need me.”

“Always need you, baby,” Niall immediately counters, still emotionless, but one corner of his mouth is tilting. It kicks up a bit of friendly warmth in Louis’ chest, comforts him in such an odd way.

“You know,” Louis begins slowly, ratty black apron tugging on his neck, “for ‘only being into women and women alone,’ as you like to so-exuberantly proclaim when you’re pissed, you certainly have immense sexual chemistry with me.” He grins when Niall glances up at him, wiggling his eyebrows like a cartoon. He’s so, so bored, that it’s come to flirting with Niall. This might mean he’s officially dead inside.

“Baby, you know that there are only two men who I would gladly suck off: you, and Small Coffee Bloke,” Niall replies easily, easy as the air and the wind and the sun that always casts a halo on his honey head.

Louis blinks, wishing he had a halo too. “Small Coffee Bloke?” he questions. “I don’t recall.”

“Yeah, he comes in the mornings,” Niall replies, scribbling away, taking an occasional sip of some espresso concoction that’s almost white in color. “Liam always gets jealous cuz the girls fall over themselves to take his order.”

“How very uncharacteristic of him,” Louis snorts, eyes flicking to the backroom where Liam currently is, scrubbing milk residue off of pitchers like the darling work horse he is. “Never really heard of this guy, though. Have I seen him?”

Shrugging, Niall sets down his clipboard; it clinks. “Probably. Sometimes he comes in the evenings, I think. Looks posh, a bit. Carries a bag.”

“Oh, you don’t say,” Louis faux-gasps. “How utterly remarkable! A bag! He must be swimming in the money, then. Only the nobles can afford things like bags!”

Niall whacks him in the head as he passes him, smile finally coming out to play. “He’s fit,” he half-laughs, sauntering to the backroom. “You’d like him, if you ever looked up from that bloody diary of yours.”

And Louis’ laughter fades a bit.

**

It’s true though, yeah, Louis always carries his sketchbook. It’s always in that aforementioned backpack that he carries with him wherever he goes; just a brown burlap thing that he got years ago, around the time he started drawing regularly.

Drawing regularly… Hah. That sounds really pretentious and deep. Sounds like Louis has actual talent and has dozens of pages of Still Life and Hand Studies.

But it’s nothing like that. It’s not art, or anything. It’s literally just doodles, just lines and angles and shading, just small pictures of abstract emotions that Louis could never, ever find words for. Cuz Louis’ never been a words man, has always been based in action, in life, in sound and color and touch. Fuck, he was a bloody nightmare in school because he could never piece together more than three sentences without feeling frustrated and inadequate.

He just can’t communicate what he’s feeling. Articulation’s never been his thing, basically.

But when he met Zayn—Art Student and self-proclaimed Visionary—he’d encouraged Louis to start sketching. Zayn was an artist and he believed in expressing all of life’s major emotions through pictures and symbols and songs and…yeah. Louis fell hard. Zayn encompassed all the things he wanted to be, wished he could be. Zayn held the answers for everything Louis ever had a question to.

And so he started drawing. Nothing crazy or beautiful; sometimes it was just cartoons and random words and little squiggly drawings of flowers and knives and natural disasters—you know, normal things. But it felt good, it felt right, and it made sense. So, ever after, Louis would just sketch to express anything resembling an emotion. He’d listen to music and draw, and it sounds so damn cheesy, so utterly rubbish, but it’s fucking great, alright? It works for him. And it’s become a sort of hobby, so he carries his book with him wherever he goes, tucked in his brown backpack alongside a pack of gum, tube of Chapstick, iPod, cigarettes, and wallet. All the essentials.

It’s no big deal—just something he’s carried on, even after Zayn.

It’s just his brown bag, just his sketchbook.

**

The kitchen is the most chaotic room in the house; there’s always at least two siblings in there, usually something about to burst into flame, and a constant mess of juice and cereal bits. Undoubtedly, it’s Louis’ favorite spot in the house.

“Chaos is nice,” he calmly explains to Fizzy as he draws smoke and drums; he’s been on a Pink Floyd kick lately and he’s illustrating the entirety of their _Ummagumma_ album. It makes absolutely no sense and that’s what he’s doing.

“You’ve lost your mind,” she mutters back, shaking her head. Chestnut-brown braids swaying. “Christ, I’d rather listen to Lottie blather on in French than sit in here like you do.”

Louis hums, the pungent smell of Sharpie giving him a headache. Oh well. “She still on about that?”

“Yeah,” Fizzy sighs, and Louis can just about hear the roll of her eyes. “Won’t shut her trap about it. She’s in love, I reckon. So annoying.”

“I bet.” Tongue between his teeth, he colors in an explosive volcano, his posture and tone nonchalant. “You should tell her to make her mysterious French lover a romantic dinner,” he mutters sagely, drawing magma. Or lava, maybe. ‘Lava’ is a very cool word. It sounds like ‘lover’ but more lavish, maybe. Sounds like something that Louis would’ve intoned repeatedly while Zayn tapped out an uneven beat on a bongo, in one of those dive bars that they’d always found themselves in on weeknights, pupils dilated and pockets empty.

He swallows, drawing more magma, shutters closing behind his eyes. “Have her make crepes, or something,” he continues. “Cheese and wine. Baguettes. Laughing Cow.”

Fizzy just laughs, ruffling up his hair with her thin fingers. “You’re so weird—encouraging your little sister to seduce someone.”

When she walks away, Louis finally responds, stretching as he caps his Sharpie.

“No seduction in this house,” he says to a room that doesn’t hear him. “Romance is dead, kids.”

**

The next morning, Louis wakes up to ‘ _Lady Marmalade’_ stuck in his head. Down the hall, Lottie is scream-singing it.

It’s 7AM.

He draws a croissant on fire in his sketchbook then falls back asleep.

**

It’s grey and mundane, the air a little tacky with humidity, and the clouds all swirled together in the sky like whipped cream. Nothing very inspirational or exciting, but there’s still a coziness to the atmosphere, so Louis just stuffs his beanie further over his ears as he eases up to the curb of Lottie’s school, shades on for no other reason than just because. He likes driving with sunglasses, he’s got those sensitive blue eyes.

Lottie needed a ride home today. Apparently she’s working on a project or…something. Louis isn’t really sure—he’d just come from a very busy day of being Babysitter to the twins while mum grocery shopped, then became Mum’s Assistant as they prepped dinner.

“Isn’t it more fun to make dinner when you’re single?” he’d grinned after the room became too quiet, lathering ostentatious humor into his voice as he peeled potatoes.

His mum had laughed, hair piled atop her head in a messy bun. “It is, indeed. But you know what’s even more fun than making dinner while single?”

“What’s that?”

A glint blossomed in her eye, a bit of self-depreciating humor alighting her smile. God, he was so much like this woman. “Dessert,” she beamed. “Let’s get fat.”

“I knew you were the best mother for me,” he deadpanned back before they clinked utensils and went back to work, children ambling up to their legs and tugging on clothes because that’s what children do whenever you’re busy.

But right now, he’s here (how metaphysical), picking up Lottie. And, after he picks up Lottie, he’ll take her back home so they can eat that dinner, eat that dessert, and watch the same TV programs they do every week at the same time. And then, after that, he’ll help everyone with their homework, help the little ones wash up, and wash the dishes. Aaaaand then he’ll sneak outside to walk around his neighborhood like he does every night, he’ll smoke like a chimney, draw some shit when he stops in the park, and then he’ll haul his arse home and try to fall asleep before the sky falls purple. It’s a plan.

Tapping the ash off of his cigarette out the window, he puts the car in park, watching kids mill about on the pavement, watching clouds swirl against the foreboding outline of administrative buildings. The whole ‘school’ thing used to leave a bad taste in his mouth because it was always so serious, so starched and difficult.

He doesn’t know what he thinks about it now, though. Curious, mostly.

 _“Here, kiddo,”_ he texts Lottie, taking a drag. He watches the smoke billow out between his lips, all twisted and blue-grey, and it reminds of him of an abstract squiggle he got tattooed onto his forearm when he was nineteen. Cool.

It’s only after about five minutes of staring into the abyss (formal education), that Lottie finally emerges from the brown, wooden doors of the school, laughter etched in her youthful face, a bounce in her step. She’s got her vampire lipstick on again and is wearing Louis’ striped shirt; but now, now she’s got that beret on her head.

It’s so utterly transparent and ridiculous that it makes Louis smile, softer on the edges than is custom.

“Nice hat,” he comments mildly when she finally flops into the seat, pulling the door shut with an ‘ooph’. Perfume wafts everywhere.

“Hush,” she scolds, but it’s accompanied with a wink because she’s a proper Tomlinson and Louis is proud, so he doesn’t say anything more.

He’s only just begun pulling back onto the road when suddenly Lottie’s hand grips his arm in a vice-like clutch that nearly pulverizes his bones into actual, literal dust.

“JESUS,” he bellows as he floors the breaks, wincing as he plucks his arm away from her polished nails and apparent Hulk-strength. He stares at her. “What the actual fuck was that for, then?”

But Lottie isn’t looking at him. Rather, her eyes are focused somewhere behind Louis, all big and round. Blue eyes outlined in charcoal. “It’s him,” she finally mutters lowly, voice pulled from her intestines.

“Him?” Louis repeats, feeling only a pinprick of concern as he tries to search her unblinking eyes, her frozen form. “It’s who? Who’s ‘him’?”

After Lottie doesn’t respond (too lost in the moment, apparently), Louis just wordlessly follows her gaze.

His eyes land on a sloping figure carrying a brown leather bag. The figure has fluffy, unruly brown hair that ruffles in the breeze and contrasts warmly against the cold, pale sky. It’s a man. He’s got a smooth profile, peach skin, and tight trousers. Suede boots.

 _Oh,_ Louis thinks.

“That your French lover?” he asks, a little lost in his own gaze. The man walks without purpose, it seems. Slow motion. Like he’s got nowhere to be and like his life is composed of honey and melted ice cream.

Louis once had a life composed of honey and melted ice cream. Maybe.

Or maybe it was composed of oil and ash. He probably never walked like this man.

“Yeah,” Lottie sighs, a dream-like sound. “Gorgeous, isn’t he? He’s the student teacher for our French class.”

Student teacher for French class.

“Please tell me you’re not lusting after an authority figure,” he sighs, unable to look away. The man’s wearing a grey jumper. It looks soft.

Lottie sighs, long-suffering. “Like you haven’t,” she mutters under her breath.

Touché.

Instead of responding though, Louis just rips his gaze away and pulls the car onto the road. He doesn’t blink and he doesn’t speak, just drives.

“His name’s Mr. Styles,” Lottie sighs, forehead pressed against the window as her breath fogs the surface. “He’s a dream.”

 _Mr. Styles._ Cool.

Louis just nods, then fiddles with the buttons on the radio.

**

Sometimes it’s late at night and Louis can’t sleep after he takes his walk in the neighborhood, the cold still held in his cheeks.

So instead he draws what Nirvana’s _Unplugged_ sounds like, and nibbles on crackers that leave crumbs in his bed, on his pants, and stick to his lips. The moon leaves an icy glow on his skin and he watches as the shadows morph, Sharpie scratching against paper.

Eventually he falls asleep with black-stained fingertips, too tired because his day was too busy.

**

“Look, I’m not saying shit—I’m just saying that you’re mentally fucking disturbed if that sounds like fun to you,” Louis says easily as he pours a pitcher of thick, steamed milk into a ceramic mug. Flashing a brief smile, he passes it off to a young girl at the hand-off plane, absently ruffling a hand through his disheveled hair. He forgot his beanie today.

“It _is_ fun,” Liam protests, a whine just barely decipherable in his tone as he stacks newly washed mugs on the shelf. He’s wearing a cut-off under his tightly wrapped apron because he’s always been one for displaying his highly-cared-for muscles. Beside him, Niall nods, though amusement is clearly written on his face. “You’re just a child, Lou. It’s legit not scary.”

Louis can only offer up his best withering glare. “I’m sorry, but are you _really_ going to stand there and pretend that getting high and going _ghost hunting_ is merely a fun, family activity? Really?”

When it looks like neither Liam nor Niall is going to respond (and bless Liam—he looks earnest), Louis sighs out a death rattle and shakes his head, turning away from the lot.

“Of course it’s goddamn scary,” he answers the ether, flicking coffee grounds off his fingers. “I’ll get high, yes. But I’m not about those ghosts.”

“High?” A young, darling, and deceivingly innocent voice suddenly chirps.

It has Louis already sighing, Niall already smirking, and Liam already waving a greeting.

“Brother Dearest. Did you just insinuate that you take illicit drugs?”

“Hello, Lottie,” Louis greets with as much enthusiasm as rusted barbed wire. “And how are you today?”

Smug, she leans on the handoff plane, her white-blonde hair a waterfall beneath that ridiculous beret. _“Je suis très bien!”_ she unsurprisingly responds, her words like bells, her polished fingernails like glass shards as she clicks them on the granite.

“What did she just say?” Liam asks, brow furrowed.

“It wasn’t English and it wasn’t Gaelic, I can tell you that much,” Niall adds, focusing his attentions on picking at a mysterious stain on his apron. Everyone’s so motivated and productive here.

“It’s _French_ ,” Lottie scolds, rolling her eyes. “Honestly. Did any of you even make it to uni?”

“No,” they all chirp as one, bright smiles on their faces, and she can only purse her lips.

“So, you’re still stalking your teacher, then?” Louis asks, failing to keep the amusement out of his voice as he begins making her beverage (an iced caramel latte with as much caramel drizzle that the human body can handle before it goes into shock). His movements are practiced, fluid. Behind his eyes, an image of a man walking in suede boots flits past, like a reel of old film.

Behind him, Niall and Liam drift away—probably to smoke in the backroom.

“Of course,” Lottie smiles, going a bit dreamy. Her eyes are clear blue sky, her brain a pillow of clouds. “Today he even asked if I needed help on my project.” The words are so triumphant and smug that Louis glances up at her while the shots pull.

“Er… Isn’t he supposed to do that?” he asks, plucking up a cup and uncapping his Sharpie. (The best part of working at a small café downtown is that Louis gets to draw shitty pictures on cups and get away with it.) “He’s your teacher, kid. He needs to check up on you.”

Lottie just sighs patiently, as if she were schooling a child. Or a dog. “Yes, but he didn’t go up to Eloise, did he? No, he did not. Just me.”

Silence.

Louis smirks a bit, coloring in the rather shoddy looking Eiffel Tower that he’s just defaced. “Therefore…?” he prods, feeling a little lost.

“Therefore,” Lottie continues, voice on the brink of losing her patience, “he likes me.”

“Lottie. You’re seventeen.”

“He’s, like, 23.”

“I’m 23.”

“See? Totally acceptable.”

At that, Louis almost drops the cup; which would’ve been a shame because he’s just drawn a masterpiece. A stick figure (Lottie) standing on a pile of sticks (Eiffel Tower), while a larger stick figure (Louis) holds the scene in his palm. Genius.

And Louis is just about to respond—fully mortified and somewhat thoroughly disturbed—when suddenly Lottie’s eyes catch something across the way. They widen, they freeze, her mouth pops into an ‘O’.

“Oh my god,” she gasps on a nearly silent breath.

Louis stares at her, the scene all too familiar, as a weird blip pulses through his bloodstream. Amusement, probably. “It’s him, isn’t it,” he states more than asks. “It’s the teacher.” The _fit_ teacher, more like.

But he doesn’t say that, instead just dumping the swirled caramel and warm espresso into her cup and topping it off with a flourish of milk. Sealing it with love.

When Lottie only nods, still looking utterly stricken, Louis just chuckles quietly to himself, procuring a straw as he shoves her drink at her before running a hand through his unruly hair. “Go. Leave,” he scolds quietly, trying not to laugh at her expression. “Be gone. I’m not watching my sister flirt with an old man. Get out.”

“But you’re giving me a ride home!” she hisses, still staring towards the till.

Louis hasn’t looked yet. He’s not sure if he wants to see Mr. Styles up close. Being attracted to people was never his favorite thing, especially when those people were his loved ones’ teachers.

“Well, go and smoke a cigarette until he leaves, or something,” Louis shrugs, waving his hand in errant patterns.

“Lou!” Lottie’s eyes bug as she grips the countertop for dear life. “I don’t even smoke!”

He can’t help but laugh then, a startled burst of light falling from his lips, as Lottie’s face flushes and she finally rips her gaze back to him, glaring fiercely.

“Stop laughing!” she scolds, trying to smack him over the handoff plane. It causes quite a ruckus, and Louis just sniggers all the more, avoiding her flailing hands with ease. It’s cute and dumb and immature and chaotic—

“Well, hello, Charlotte,” a voice [that sounds like lava spilling down the sides of a volcano] suddenly intones next to them. (Lava. That cool word.)

The unexpected presence makes the laughter on Louis’ tongue pause, his head turning to find the source, his movements slowing.

_Oh._

Yeah. It’s Mr. Styles. Yep, here is. That’s him.

Louis shuts his mouth, laughter pulling away with the tide and revealing exposed beach. A curious sort of calm.

Mr. Styles has warm skin and a black knit jumper and a very pretty face. Mr. Styles is tall. Mr. Styles smiles like it’s the most casual, easy thing in the world. Mr. Styles has one hand in the pocket of his formfitting trousers, one hanging awkwardly by his side, and he has a black leather watch that tells the right time.

Mr. Styles is smiling at Louis’ sister, cheerful and nonchalant.

Louis stares at Mr. Styles.

“Heyyy,” Lottie responds awkwardly, breathlessly, as she stares up at him like he were a deity. Her mouth is still rounded, her eyes are still wide, and a bit of hair is stuck to her lipstick.

It’s weird and sorta sweet (but mostly weird), so Louis just flicks eyes between the two and grabs another cup, absently drawing black lines on its surface to keep his hands busy.

“What are you up to?” the Lava God asks politely. ‘Polite’ is probably a perfect word to describe Mr. Styles in general.

“Oh, my brother works here,” Lottie rushes, words all jumbled and stilted, and Louis just bites back a smile from where he’s doodling, hip leaned against the counter. He can hear the clock tick on the wall. Roasted espresso sits in his nostrils. His arms are kinda cold and there isn’t a queue, the place rather empty momentarily. The atmosphere is sorta peaceful and wonky.

“Brother…?” Mr. Styles asks, curious, fishing, and Louis just sighs, figuring that this is probably his cue to look up.

So he does just that, blinking the stray bits of hair out of his eyes as he meets Mr. Styles’ rather imploring gaze head-on. “I’m the brother,” he half-smiles, waving with the uncapped Sharpie woven between his fingers. “Brother Tomlinson.”

“His name’s Louis,” Lottie sighs, a bit of her normal demeanor poking through. Exasperation and confidence.

“I suppose it is,” Louis concedes, flashing her a playful wink before looking back to Mr. Styles—who’s smiling very prettily, if we’re being honest. “I suppose my name is Louis.”

Mr. Styles nods, pulling out his pocketed hand to wave. Fingers combing air. “And I suppose my name is Harry.”

“Can I call you Harry?” Lottie asks, innocent and wide-eyed, and Louis snorts, feeling a kick of pride in his chest.

Brows furrowing, Harry looks over to her. “No, of course not. Forget you ever heard that. My first name is Mister.”

Lottie giggles and Harry smiles a bit, somewhat lopsided. Louis spies, with his little eye, a dimple. It’s much purer than the one in Niall’s chin—this one looks more like the imprint of a kiss and much less like an arse.

“Mister is much better than Harry,” Louis offers amiably, half-shrugging. Lottie shoots him a look.

Harry smiles though and looks back at Louis again, a curiosity in his expression. His hair is medium brown, probably smells like cinnamon and pinecones, and his eyes are mossy. If Louis were to draw him, he’d draw a lanky tree with a smile, with branches that reach toward the sun.

“Louis, this is my student teacher for French,” Lottie coughs then, clearly blushing as she tucks hair behind one ear. Trying to be casual. Trying to act like Louis doesn’t know _exactly_ who this is.

Since Louis is charitable, he plays along. “Ah, nice to meet you. How _magnifique,_ ” he attempts lamely, not even bothering with an accent.

It makes Harry exaggeratedly wince. But it makes him smile, too. “Please, don’t hurt yourself on my account,” he says with all the sincerity of Mother Theresa, but Louis knows he’s being a little shit, can see the way his lips twitch and the way his eyes curve in mischief. It’s subtle but Louis sees it.

So he regards him respectfully for a moment, tilting his head.  “Can I make you a drink?” he asks, still leaned against the counter. “I can even personalize it with one of my priceless sketches.”

“Priceless sketches?” Harry asks, intrigued, as he hoists his bag further up his shoulder and leans on the handoff plane. “How very Bohemian.”

“Please don’t indulge him,” Lottie mutters darkly, but Louis grins, scratching his scruffy chin.

“Aw, go on, Lottie. Show the man how talented I am.”

He knows he’s being a bit of a peacock, a bit of a shit. Lottie knows, too.

But Harry smiles, clearly charmed. And it kicks up a bit of the dust in Louis’ heart.

“Ah yes,” Lottie surrenders in a deadpan, raising the cup. “Truly revolutionary.” Begrudgingly, she hands it to Harry, eyes following his every movement.

Harry takes the cup gently, carefully turning it and expecting it, his face a portrait of polite confusion. “Er… I’m sorry, but what am I looking at?”

“It’s me on the Eiffel Tower,” Lottie replies instantly, sighing with every word. “And Louis is holding us in the palm of his hand because he’s terribly self-centered.”

“You say ‘self-centered,’ I say ‘self-aware,’” Louis jokes, smiling in the most shit-eating way he knows how.

It kicks at Lottie’s begrudging lips and it makes Harry laugh, full-on.

“That’s truly earth shattering,” he comments, fingers brushing over the lines. “Your self-awareness is impeccable. Tell me, when was it that you first realized the world was yours? Particularly France?”

And that, well. Louis can’t help but chuckle a bit genuinely at that, his smile growing a touch looser as he shakes his head. “Well, I don’t mean to encroach on your territory, Mister. I know you’re the French master around these parts.” He holds his hands up in surrender, enjoying the matching sparkle of Harry’s eye. “No offense intended.”

“None taken,” Harry replies smoothly, easily, handing Lottie the cup back.

She raises her eyebrow, taking a slow sip from the straw as her eyes flick between the two.

“But I still have to pay for my drink,” Harry continues, eyes on the till. “I can just…?”

But Louis waves a hand lazily, shaking his head. “No worries. This kid gets all the free drinks in the world; the least I can do is offer her teacher a drink as well, yeah? Since you’re molding her mind? You’re the reason she’s been watching Moulin Rouge on a loop.”

“Louis!” Lottie splutters, practically choking on her drink.

Louis shuts his mouth immediately.

Harry smiles, wide enough for his teeth to show. Glossy.

“Well. I appreciate it, thank you. May I just have…I don’t know. I usually just get a small coffee. What do you recommend?”

“Make him my drink!” Lottie insists, playful as she blinks her long eyelashes and smiles, straw between her teeth.

Louis narrows his eyes.” The youth can handle that much sugar, kiddo. Geriatrics like us, however, cannot.”

Harry coughs out a laugh again, making Louis flash his eyes to him, pleased. “So now we’re old?” he chuckles, sounding ten degrees warmer. “You and I?”

“Absolutely,” Louis nods seriously, already setting about making a simple drink—just a small Americano with a bit of steamed cream.  Absently, he pulls his Sharpie out, doodling away before he continues. “I’m 23. Practically at death’s door. Got my slippers lined up at the door, newspaper on the couch, and a quilt waiting for me on my rocking chair.”

“Hm. Well, that would explain all the crosswords I seem to be doing lately…” Harry hums contemplatively, tapping fingers against his lips. They’re beautiful lips. They look bouncy and inflated and very somewhat edible.

Lottie looks between the two of them, still sucking down her drink, the silver of her hoop earrings throwing flashes of prisms on the beige walls. “You’re both very weird,” she remarks flatly.

“Welcome to old age,” Louis trills, just as Harry smiles and smoothes out a, “This will be you, one day.”

Simultaneously, they connect eyes before huffing out small, almost shy laughs, Louis’ eyes darting over Harry appraisingly.

He’s cute. He’s funny. He’s quirky. He’s sweet. He’s a bit polite and a bit studious and he wears a watch and he’s clean and bright-eyed—nothing like Louis’ usual type. But he’s funny. Louis likes him.

“Good teacher you got here, Lots,” Louis says because he feels he has to, his skin feeling warmer than it has in years. His palms press against the metal of the steaming pitcher; the temperature matches. “Keep him.”

“I’ll flunk her to ensure that,” Harry nods sagely, brushing some hair out of his face clumsily, and Louis smiles wider. He wants to make a joke about his hair, wants to tease him and pick at him and make him laugh.

Instead, he gnaws on the inside of his lip and pours his drink. “Here you are, Mister Styles. On the house. Because you’re important to society.”

Chuckling, Harry takes the cup, raising it in thanks. “Thank you, Brother Tomlinson. But a man’s only as important as his drug dealer.”

Louis laughs again—it’s genuine. Even his toes feel charmed.

Lottie looks unimpressed. “Both of you… Just. Really weird.”

Harry smiles as he meets Louis’ eye over the rim of his paper cup.

“You like your picture?” Louis asks, just because he has to. Because he’s impatient and his palms itch and he keeps shuffling from foot to foot.

A delicate scene of surprise flits across Harry’s face and it’s endearing and somehow naïve in the best way, as Harry pulls his eyebrows together and inspects the paper surface of his cup. Finally though, he spots it, eyebrows smoothing out and grin forming again. Plush red on peach.

“You drew a…tamale?”

Stifling a snort, Lottie turns away, innocently sipping on her drink as Louis bites down hard on his lip to resist laughing.

“ _No_ ,” he tries to say with offense. He knows his mouth is twisting though. “It’s you. Wrapped in a French flag, actually.”

There’s about three seconds of Louis trying not to laugh, Harry blinking, and Lottie shooting her eyes up to the ceiling before the silence is broken.

“Oh my god,” Harry nearly facepalms, a happy flush overcoming him. “That is…” He grins, lips shinier than they were before, as he looks up at Louis. Messy and pretty. “You have rendered me speechless. This truly is the best art the world has ever known.”

“And you haven’t even seen my good side,” Louis deadpans, unsure of what he’s even saying, what he means. He just feels silly and light. Buoyant.

Lottie snorts again. “Don’t listen to a word he says. He’s full of it, this one.”

“Full of talent,” Louis nods seriously.

Harry won’t stop smiling. “Well. In that case, I guess I’ll have to come back for another session. None of the other baristas draw such lively things on my cups.”

“None of the other baristas are me,” Louis points out cleverly.

They smile at each other from across the way, a quiet buzzing, palpable stream flowing through the air between them. It’s weird. Electric and weird and Louis’ eyes fall as his palms twitch, a stirring sensation flitting through his fingertips. He wants to draw. Whatever he’s feeling right now…he just wants to draw something. He feels antsy.

“Well, I best get going,” Harry says slowly after a moment, and when Louis looks up, his eyes are still on him. “But it was nice seeing you, Charlotte. And very lovely to meet you, Louis.”

 _“Enchanté,”_ Louis offers up with a half-shrug.

Harry chuckles, lips stretched across his face as he shakes his head, something indecipherable in his eyes. “Something like that,” he smiles. “I’ll see you later?” It’s hopeful and sweet, the way Harry walks backwards, almost as if reluctant to go.

“I’ll be here,” Louis half-smiles as Lottie trills out a “See you tomorrow, Mr. Styles!”

And then the door finally shuts with the small ding of the bell, leaving Louis to settle his attention back to the machine before him before he begins wiping down the counters. Lottie’s eyes are on him.

“Don’t corrupt my husband, please,” she mutters dryly after a few, quiet moments pass by.

But when he looks up, she’s got a tiny smile on her face

**

It’s nearly midnight and Louis’ at a pub, flanked by Niall and Liam at the bar. A muted footie game is on and there are about a dozen empty glasses and bottles littered between the lot of them, packs of half-empty cigarettes lying about. Louis’ got a cigarette in his breast pocket, behind his ear, and in his hand. He’s pleasantly buzzed.

He keeps thinking about Harry Styles.

He’s the prettiest boy he’s seen in a long while. Years probably. And he’s funny. He thinks Louis is funny, too.

“I have to fucking open tomorrow,” Niall groans, adjusting the brim of his snapback. Niall still wears snapbacks—Louis always gives him shit for it.

“I’m off,” Liam grins in contrast, performing an off-putting celebratory dance that just turns out awkward.

Despite the dreams in his brain, Louis still has enough sense to roll up a napkin and bounce it off his forehead. “Good for you,” he says calmly as Liam blinks, startled.

He wonders if Harry drinks. Do teachers drink? Maybe Louis will buy him a shot the next time he sees him. If he ever sees him again.

But, Christ, it’s his little sister’s teacher, though. And she fancies him. And…

Yeah, it’s just not likely. There are a million reasons why it’s just not likely.

He’s still cute, though. Still funny. He was fun today…

It’s just when Louis’ about to throw in the towel and call it a night (his eyelids are heavy), when his phone suddenly buzzes in the back pocket of his faded black jeans. Which is a little odd and rare, considering his only two friends are sat right here, his family’s asleep, and literally nobody else texts him.

When he looks at the screen, his jaw tightens.

_Zayn: “Hope you’re well, man”_

Oh, okay. Makes sense, then.

Ignoring it, Louis slides his phone back into his pocket, feeling a lot less tired suddenly and a lot more manic. He won’t think about it. It’s fine.

Genuinely, he’s fine. The past is the past.

“Hey, lads,” he grins wolfishly, chasing away the hollow of his chest. “Wanna get high in the woods? I wanna look at the sky and get fucking blazed.”

Niall looks at him like he’s fucking nuts. “I have to open, Louis.”

“Exactly,” Louis replies easily, hand cupping the back of his neck as he smiles lazily. “You’ll be awake before them all. Fuck sleep, who needs that? You’re young and healthy. Use it while you can, lad!”

Beside him, Liam’s eyes are lighting up. “Come on, Ni! It sounds like fun. Let’s do it. I wanna make a tree fort.”

“See?” Louis smiles, feeling his phone burn in his pocket, feeling the tips of his shoes pressing into his backpack lying at his feet. “Let’s go and make Liam’s dreams come true.”

It takes all of thirty seconds before Niall finally huffs a sigh and flicks Louis between the eyes. “As if I could say no to you.”

Louis grins and doesn’t feel it and tugs them all along after he downs the rest of his beer.

**

It’s not two days later when Louis is met with Harry Styles again at the café. Lottie’s at a friend’s house. Niall and Liam are in the backroom as they begin closing up shop. It’s around 7PM (they close at 8) and the sky is dull, tinted with blue and orange.

“Hi, Louis,” the voice of god says from the till, and Louis looks up, expecting the end of the world.

He wasn’t far off: it’s Harry.

A smile stirs in his chest before it even reaches his mouth.

“ _Bonjour,”_ he greets in his shitty accent, momentarily forgetting how tired he feels. “Er… _Comment vas-tu?”_

“Oh my god,” Harry chuckles, clearly delighted as he leans on the counter, coat slung over his arm. He looks tired and rumpled, hair tousled and disarranged. He’s wearing all black and his lips are warm pink and he’s got a semicolon in his cheek and he tilts his head when he studies Louis, he tilts his head when he smiles. He looks like a dog. “You know I’m English, right? I just teach French?”

“It’s what you do that defines you, though,” Louis counters sagely, swirling espresso in a paper cup. He’s been sipping on it for ten minutes and it’s just a solo. He keeps zoning out. “Batman taught me that.”

“Ah,” Harry nods, quiet and watchful. His eyes flick briefly over Louis’ face, seeming to take him in, observe. “Well, Batman probably knows best. Have you seen his abs? Always trust a man with good abs.”

Louis can’t help but laugh. Balloons in his lungs. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to trust me, then.”

“No?” Harry asks, glancing down to Louis’ stomach. The muscles there clench, just from a reflex. From a self-conscious pang. “I never would’ve guessed.”

_Ah._

“So what are you doing here so late?” Louis asks casually, finally disposing of his cold espresso and flicking the cup in the bin. “I don’t usually see you.”

“Yeah, I usually come in the mornings,” Harry shrugs, looking rather road weary as he takes in his surroundings. “Around 6AM or so.”

“6AM?” Louis repeats, cringing. “How very unfortunate for you to have a job that requires you to suffer at the hands of overpriced caffeine.”

Now it’s Harry who laughs, leaning further into the counter. “But how fortunate for me to get said ‘overpriced caffeine’ from good people such as you.”

Something in Louis’ stomach squirms. Maybe he has worms. “Never said I was good, Dimples,” he smirks.

There’s a brief pause then, a moment where Harry blinks and touches the pad of his forefinger to his own cheek, almost in surprise. It’s soft and coquettish and utterly endearing. Louis smiles warmer.

“Dimples?” Harry questions, a little soft and a little blushing.

“Yeah,” Louis smiles, his own voice resembling scratched cotton. “Didn’t you know that you had those great, big craters in your cheeks?” He folds arms over his chest, goose pimples on his arms.

The espresso machines hum. The radio plays quietly overhead. And Harry breathes and talks softly, shadows beneath his eyes, and hair frizzy, curls corkscrewed by his ears. The first three buttons are undone on his shirt.

“Well, I mean, of course I know, I guess,” he says slowly. Drip, drip. “I just…” But Harry doesn’t finish the sentence, instead smiling and flushing a soft pearly pink in the apples of his cheeks.

“Yeah,” Louis shrugs softly, just because. He regards him for a moment before he speaks. “So. Whatcha drinking today? It’s on the house.”

But Harry’s already shaking his head, a frown deepening the creases in his cheeks. Sad dimple. “No, I couldn’t. You’ve already given me one—“

“And I promise you, it’s because I’m allowed to do nice things like that. For good folks,” Louis adds simply, calmly. “Christ, you’re a teacher, Harry. Niall would be disheartened to hear I didn’t give you free drinks. He likes when I butter up the clientele.”

“Oh?” Harry asks, grinning slowly again. “You butter up all your customers?”

“Like a _croissant,”_ he nods, lathering on that terrible French accent.

Harry cackles a bit, looks less tired. “Ah. Well, in that case… Surprise me?” His voice upturns in the cutest way when he says it, his hand in the pockets of his trousers. “I’ve got a long night of grading poorly-written French essays and absolutely no motivation right now. Please drug me.”

“Then drug you, I shall,” Louis grins, already pulling shots. He itches his collarbone, Harry tracks the motion.

And so Louis makes another Americano—with three extra shots—and pumps a bit of vanilla in there, pours a bit of steamed cream. He uncaps his Sharpie, draws a sun.

“Here, you are. For inspiration,” Louis smiles, because Harry’s smile is infectious and he takes the cup with a little bit of reverence.

“A sun?” Harry questions, fingers stroking the image as he ponders.

“A sun,” Louis confirms, leaning on the counter. The clock ticks, the sun fades through the large glass windows. “Because you’re a tree. And because tomorrow will be a brand new day, so who gives a fuck what ends up happening today? You still have tomorrow. Good luck.”

When Harry grins, he creates his own sun.

**

“Did you see Mr. Styles again?” Lottie asks the next day. She’s leaning on Louis’ doorframe, arms folded across her chest. Hair in a French braid.

“Yeah, he came to the shop last night,” he mumbles absently from where he’s nested in his bed, sketching. He’s got a few more minutes before he has to start dinner. Mum’s at work and the twins are still napping. Liam keeps snapchatting him pictures of his toenails for some reason. Niall’s at work.

“Thought so,” she mutters, but she doesn’t sound nearly as venomous as he thought she would. “He had a cup on his desk today. One of your little doodles on it. Wasn’t the one from the other day, though.”

And with that, she walks off, hair and perfume billowing behind her.

Louis looks up, blinks. “What was it? What doodle?” he calls, straining his neck.

Pause.

“A picture of a sun!” she shouts back, before she pads down the stairs.

Louis can only smile for ten long seconds before he promptly shuts his sketchbook and follows in her wake. Birds in his chest.

**

“Gonna be at Michelle’s again,” Lottie says the next morning over breakfast, shoveling cereal in her mouth. “So you don’t need to give me a ride home.”

“Alright, cool,” Louis yawns, scratching his stomach as he waits for the kettle.

The kitchen’s a bit noisy, with white sunlight streaming in and setting the dust particles aglow. Everything smells like eggs and bacon and mum’s buttering toast while the twins screech about nonsense, the other twins nibble on their eggs and nearly fall asleep on their plates. Fizzy’s combing fingers through her drying hair and keeping an eye on the baby twins, phone in her other hand.

Nice and chaotic and Louis feels a strange sort of release in his chest at the sight of it.

“Don’t flirt with Mr. Styles today, though,” Lottie then says, breaking his reverie.

He looks up, eyebrows rising.

She’s hiding a smirk behind her spoon. “He’s mine. Try to keep it in your pants, Lou.”

And then she’s dumping her bowl in the sink, kissing mum goodbye and grabbing Fizzy, and Louis just…

Well. Louis just stares.

**

Again, Harry arrives at the café around 7PM.

“Another late day?” Louis asks the minute Harry walks through the door. The bell dings, the world sighs, and Louis stops wiping down the counter.

Instead of heading for the till, Harry just walks straight to Louis, thighs bumping the handoff plane. He smiles. He’s wearing a cream button-up with tiny Eiffel towers printed on it. Louis wants to take the piss out of him but he can’t.

“I’m finally finishing up those essays,” he grins, looking a tad more rested. His hair’s less frizzy, his skin is clear. “I just have two more to go and then I’m free.”  He closes his eyes, basking in the freedom at his fingertips.

Louis watches him, smirking. “Well, well. And how are you going to celebrate such freedom? Cocaine, right? Hard drugs? Or maybe you’re the arson type…”

Snorting, Harry shakes his head, opening his eyes. He’s just so pretty. “Try again.”

“Hm,” Louis contemplates. “How about battery?”

“False.”

“Indecent exposure?”

That startles a laugh out of Harry, an unbecoming snort erupting from his face. “Closer,” he chuckles, pinker than he was before. “Nobody can pass up a good ol’ opportunity to expose themselves indecently.”

It makes Louis chuckle too, unsure of what to do with his hands. “You’re funny,” he remarks, almost absently.

Harry looks surprised. “I am? Because I think you’re the funny one.”

“I think we’re both funny,” Louis settles for, and it’s all too easy. So very easy. He fiddles with his beanie, feels a tad self-conscious about his tattoos.

As if reading his thoughts, Harry’s eyes fall to them. “I like your tattoos,” he says quietly, reaching out a finger to point, but not touch. “Interesting.”

“Hm, yeah. They’re something,” he reasons, feeling a frown begin to tug. He ushers it away before he looks back up at Harry, who’s watching him closely. “But congratulations on being free. Really. That’s awesome.”

“Thank you.”

‘ _Norwegian Wood’_ is playing on the radio, wafting between them as Louis drops his rag in the bucket. There’s a palpable feeling flowing in the air, riding on the vibes of the song. Louis can feel Harry’s eyes on him and it’s flattering and somehow grounding, making him want to smile and rub at that bit of his chest where his heart thumps unevenly. Or maybe he just wants to chainsmoke.

“Hey, Lou?” Harry suddenly asks, watching him. Almost shy.

Louis clears his throat. “Yeah?”

“What time do you get off of work?”

Feeling a heat spread from his chest to his cheeks, Louis picks at the counter, fingers grappling for distraction. “Erm, in like an hour? About?” He glances up, trying to be subtle.

Harry’s pink, nodding seriously as he stares at a random spot on the counter. “Alright. Well, if you’re free and bored and, er, not too tired? Would you like to grab some dinner with me? I haven’t eaten yet… I mean. If you want.” He shrugs. Casual.

Louis knows that, due to some obligation to his younger sister’s insane crush, he should say no. But he’s got living things in his lungs and his stomach and chest, and he’s just… Look, Louis has moved on from his past and he’s fine, yeah? But he feels more fine in Harry’s presence, he feels more like himself.

Feels more like he’s calm, less like he’s running.

So he says, “Yeah, sure,” and tries to catch his eye.

Harry swallows visibly, looking rather taken aback. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis nods, and he’s smiling even more. “I’m always hungry.”

“Good,” Harry grins now, loosening. He’s nodding. “Good.”

“Good.”

**

Louis convinces Niall to let him go early.

“I’m gonna have dinner with that guy over there,” he says, pointing to where Harry’s currently playing on his iPad at one of the small tables. Waiting patiently because he’s a gentleman. They keep making eyes at each other from across the room and it feels very Jane Austen and completely opposite of all of Louis’ past love interests. It’s refreshing. Sweet.

Niall squints, looking up from his clipboard. “Holy shit,” he nearly laughs, expression opening up to one of pure amusement. He looks at Louis. “That’s Small Coffee Bloke.”

Louis blinks, confused. “The regular…?”

“The guy from the mornings. The one everyone’s in love with,” he nods, laughter in his voice.

Oh.

Laughing, Niall wraps an arm around Louis’ shoulders and smiles as he presses a chaste kiss to his temple.

“Good for you, Lou,” he grins, voice and chest puffed with pride. “Happy for you. Good to get out of your head every once in awhile.”

Startled, Louis pulls back, staring hard at him and feeling a little lost. “In my own head? I don’t know—“

“You never talk about what’s wrong, or what happened, or whatever,” Niall continues, as if he were discussing laundry. “And that’s fine, mate. But I’m glad you’re smiling, kid. Looks good on you.”

And he presses one last kiss to Louis’ temple before he heads back to the desk.

“Told you that you’d like him,” he adds as an afterthought, and Louis just laughs under his breath as he gathers his coat.

**

They end up getting tacos at a stand, sitting on a picnic table beneath a sun-bleached umbrella that was probably once pink but is now sandy-salmon. The food’s as delicious as it is messy and greasy, orange strands streaming down their hands and fingers, puddling at the corners of their mouths. A mound of used napkins sits between them, all crumpled up and transparent.

Harry’s got cilantro in his teeth and grease on his chin, but it doesn’t deter him from eating with more gusto than Louis has ever seen.

“You look incredibly hot right now,” Louis says with his mouth full, cheeks puffed out.

It makes Harry pause before his next bite, eyes flickering across Louis’ face. It’s one, two, three seconds before he bursts into laughter then, which makes Louis laugh, and they both nearly choke to death.

It’s fine, though. Louis’ backpack sits at his feet and he doesn’t even think about his sketchbook. Not even when Harry says, “You’re hotter than that chorizo,” and winks like a 70’s pornstar, then stifles laughter behind his clumsy hand, then kicks Louis’ shin playfully.

He’s so young and dorky and endearingly embarrassing.

He’s nothing like Louis is accustomed to.

He’s everything Louis wants.

**

The moon’s now up and the streetlamps are on. Tall, orange shadows.

Harry and Louis are sitting on a bench, going through Louis’ sketchbook.

“This is incredible,” Harry murmurs, fingers grazing the images pressed into the pages. “What’s all this for, though? If you’re not going to school, or anything, is it just… Just for fun, then? Because it’s fascinating, Louis, honestly. Where does all this come from?”

Louis nods absently, trying to find words that don’t exist. He shuffles, shoes scuffing pavement, and sits on his hands because he doesn’t know what to do with them, doesn’t know what the tattoos on them mean anymore, doesn’t know how he can explain the scratched black lines and chaos to someone as pure as Harry. Someone so genuinely inquisitive and sweet.

“Well. I guess… It all started when my ex encouraged me to draw because I’m not good with words,” Louis finds himself saying, as Harry slowly devours each page, hands reverent. In the dark, the images look distorted and faded. Simple.

His heart thuds with each passing second. He’s never shown anyone his book before—not even Niall and Liam. He’s not even really sure why he handed it over to Harry so easily. Maybe it’s because it’s nighttime, maybe it’s because Harry’s different, maybe it’s because Louis’ just really tired. Maybe it’s because of what Niall said earlier. Who knows.

“Not good with words?” Harry questions, but it’s gentle, not poking. It’s comfortable. The orange meringue glow on his skin is comfortable, too. Just like the past three hours have been comfortable.

So Louis continues. “Like, I’ve never been one for talking about shit— _things_ ,” he amends, trying to sound a little less emotionally constipated and fidgety. Trying to sound mature, for once. “So Zayn just… I don’t know. He said I should try sketching instead. To express myself that way. And it worked, I guess. It’s all terrible and none of it makes sense. But it helps.”

Harry’s quiet, just turning the pages.

So Louis continues even further, knee bouncing, hands cold. He curls them up in his hoodie. “We broke up, like, seven months ago. Maybe eight. Something like that. Almost a year, I guess.” He’s fidgeting. Harry’s quiet. “I was living with him in London and we were just living this really meaningless sort of life, I guess?” He laughs, uncomfortable. “We were together for almost five years and nothing ever changed, you know? I met him when he was an art student and I broke up with him when he was selling his art for thousands of dollars and attending VIP clubs and opening up a tattoo shop on the side and…and yet it was somehow all the same?” He frowns, staring down at the pavement. Old cigarette butts and weeds that struggle through cracks.

The soft, turning of pages breaks up the brief silence, Harry breathing beside him. He’s so gentle in all his movements. “What was the same?” he murmurs.

Louis closes his eyes. “I don’t know. Everything? We just never grew up. We fell in love and, like, it was great at the time, and I’m thankful for him, for everything he was to me, but it just never transcended past youthfulness, I feel like. We kept doing too many drugs and indulging in fantasies and, erm, just… It got to the point where I was almost a drug addict, I was depending on him financially because I couldn’t keep a job, I couldn’t remember what who I was, I never had time for my family, I never had time for myself... I barely spoke, even? Like, our life was just “”art”” and fucking in the back allies of the pubs we’d do shitty beat poetry in. All we did was fuck and hallucinate and stare at each other and avoid each other and make false friends that used us and we used them back. It was just fucked up. I didn’t like myself. I never…I never felt genuine. I never talked, Harry,” he laughs, laughing humorlessly. A weird sort of emotion sits behind his eyes. He’s not sure if he wants to cry. He never talks about this stuff.

“You never talked?” And now Harry is looking at him, feet pressed together, his face so genuinely sad that Louis actually does want to cry because he’s just, well—he’s overwhelmed.

He wipes his nose with the back of his hand and looks away, shrugging. “It wasn’t part of our relationship. We literally never talked about shit. He believed in expressing himself only through his work and I followed in his wake. It was just…really unhealthy. And he’s such a good lad—he is—but I was the worst thing for him and I think he was the worst thing for me. And I get—I get sad when I think about him because we were best friends but I think he fucked me up a little bit? And I feel guilty and really goddamn weak because I don’t even know who I am. Like this shit”—he points to his tattoos recklessly, trying not to let his voice warble in frustration—“I don’t know why I got these or what they mean. I don’t know what I want or what I think half the time. I don’t know what music I like or what fits me because I have this strange basic instinct to just…blindly follow his lead? Still, kinda? It’s so pathetic. We were so, so lost. We pretended like we were untouchable and rare. We were neither of those things.” Louis chews his lips, staring at the tips of his shoes. “Or maybe we were and I just didn’t want to be anymore. He told me I was his inspiration when I broke up with him and I just had to laugh because, what does that mean? Did he even love me as a person or did he love the idea of me?”

He pauses, exhales, looks up at the sky. Harry’s so warm beside him.

“But then, to be fair, I have to ask myself that same question,” Louis blathers on, coasting on the adrenaline of spilling all this shit out—all this shit he didn’t even realize he had. Everything’s just falling out now, messy. “Did I love him or did I love the idea of him? We should’ve just stayed friends.”

And there. He said it. That’s the bottom line.

He exhales slowly as he closes his eyes, his chest loosening just a bit.

That was a lot. Probably too much. He should probably apologize.

But Harry speaks first.

“As much as I wish you didn’t have to feel this way right now, as fucked up as all that is, I think that all of the shit you went through made you who you are today, Louis,” Harry finally says, calm and low. Soothing. Like leaves brushing against bark. “Maybe you needed Zayn to realize what you _weren’t_ , you know? Maybe you don’t know exactly who you are just yet. But I think it’s just as important, if not moreso, to realize who you don’t want to be.”

Seconds pass. Louis’ heart beats. He breathes.

“Yeah,” he nods eventually, wiping palms on his jeans. His heart’s somewhere in his throat or his brain, maybe. Or maybe it’s spilling out his eyes when he looks over at Harry finally, too much emotion clogging his airways to speak properly. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s…yeah.” 

Harry nods, as if relieved he didn’t offend him, before he continues, scooting that much closer. His words pour between them, fluid and sweet. “And, like, not to make light of your situation, but this sketchbook is incredible. Your mind is incredible, Louis. These images, the creativity, the humor…” he drifts, a reverent sort of smile on his face, and Louis can only stare at him, heart in his throat. “This is just incredible. Really. And, while I’m sorry for your pain, I feel like that’s what pushed you to grow. It made you, like, become stronger and empowered, in a way. And now you’re _you_ ”—he swirls a hand in the air, encompassing all of Louis in thin fingers and a large palm—“and you’re perfect the way you are. You’ve grown into someone truly intelligent and wise and thoughtful and creative and… I don’t know. I mean, I guess I don’t know you very well so you’re probably just rolling your eyes at me.” Harry coughs into his palm then, shrugging as he blushes—it’s visible even in the dark.

Louis bites his lip, trying not to smile in relief. Odd, odd relief. Odd _emotion_.

“But, just from what I’ve seen and what you’ve shown me…” Harry drifts, eyes roaming the page before he shuts the sketchbook with finality, fingers curling over the edges. Almost protectively. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, or sad for. It should be praised. Celebrated, even. All of this”—he gestures with the book—“made _you._ ”

It’s a moment before Louis can respond, voice a little scratchy. Cars pass slowly, headlights dragging across the storefronts, and the occasional passerby will break the silence, their shoes clacking against the sidewalk.

“You’re awfully insightful for a French teacher,” is all Louis eventually says, and Harry laughs, easy again.

“You’re awfully deep for a barista.”

Louis looks sidelong at him. “I don’t even know what that means.”

Harry grins, crooked. “Neither do I.”

They stare at each other, smiling.

“Can I come visit you tomorrow, then?” Harry asks out of nowhere, staring at Louis as if he were the fixed mark of the universe, as if he were Polaris. “At the café?”

“Visit me every day,” Louis half-jokes (doesn’t joke at all), as he accepts the sketchbook back, his pulse probably visible. Their hands brush, because of course they do. It’s always on purpose. “You make me feel more normal than I have since I’ve moved back,” he confesses, quiet. He doesn’t meet his eye.

“Same,” Harry smiles softly, knee pressing into Louis’. “I’m so stressed out with student teaching, I’ve been like… A recluse. Lonely, kinda. I’m just trying to do my best, you know? But you’ve eased some of my stress and made me laugh, so… Thank you.”

It’s stupid and mushy. They’re like teenagers, confessing their fondness below streetlamps.

“Thank _you_ ,” Louis still says back, watching a moth flitter above.

When they part later, Harry mutters a low-lit “ _Bon nuit”_ and kisses Louis’ cheek, his hands leaving burn marks on his arm.

And when Louis gets home, he falls into bed and drifts asleep five minutes later, lips curved soft.

**

The next day, Harry visits Louis at the café, at 7PM, and Louis doesn’t draw on Harry’s cup this time—he writes his phone number.

“My favorite cup yet,” Harry grins, clutching it in both hands and standing there like he’s never going to leave again.

Louis’ neck is hot, everything inside him squirming as he stares at the boy who currently knows more about him than anyone else here does. The boy he’s known for less than a month.

“That’s because you haven’t been graced with my Spongebob skills yet,” he smirks, playful. His heart’s still rickety, though. “I draw a mean Squidward, man.”

“Well, to be fair, Squidward already is kinda mean,” Harry reasons peaceably.

They stare at each other.

“I regret giving you my number already,” Louis mutters through a bitten-back smile.

But Harry just sips his coffee and shrugs, tapping fingers over the digits that are sloppily written there. “Too late now, babycakes.”

And Louis laughs.

**

It all sorta…escalates from there. Kinda.

Louis and Harry just click, is all. They click in a way that’s so refreshing and fun and simple, that Louis can’t even stop himself from accepting Harry’s calls and returning Harry’s texts and showing up at his flat with a bag of crisps and a pack of red pens after Harry told him that he needs to grade tests all night but he doesn’t want to be alone. And it all just spiraled from there, really. It went from _“Hey, I’ll help keep you company,”_ to _“Hey, want me to pick you up after work and we can grab dinner?”_ to _“Hey, I’ve already made plans to hang out with Niall and Liam—wanna come with, though? You’ll love them,”_ to _“Hey. It’s almost midnight and I can’t sleep. Can I come over?”_

So, yeah. It escalated.

And there are moments when Louis feels pretty goddamn guilty, feels like he’s a sneak or a backstabber, because Lottie still practices her French in the mirror and still wears that bloody beret and she still says things at dinner like, “Hey mum, can we go to France this summer?” while Louis sits there quietly and pretends that he doesn’t feel his phone vibrate with a text from Harry.

He’ll tell her—he will. But he just needs to figure out what he’s doing, first.

**

Harry’s flat is white and clean and small, but he has a vase of flowers on his kitchen table, he’s got black and white photos on his living room walls, and he likes books, the color red, and Disney movies.

His couch is soft and crimson and Louis has fallen asleep on it more than once. More than ten times. He’s fallen asleep a lot. And right now, the day is rolling into evening and they’re on that same couch but they’re both awake, watching _Fox and the Hound,_ and Louis is valiantly pretending like this is isn’t the saddest thing he’s ever fucking seen as he lies sprawled on his back, takeout on his chest, blinking every five seconds.

Something’s tight in his chest as he watches. Something digging and uncomfortable.

“This is so fucked up,” he says, voice small, and Harry looks up from his laptop, where he’s probably doing important French Teacher Things. Or maybe he’s just watching _Les Mis_ , or something.

“The movie?” Harry asks, glancing from the screen to Louis, eyes softening when they take in Louis’ clearly distressed state. “Aw, Lou. I didn’t take you for a crier.”

“I’m definitely not crying,” he mumbles, but he stands up anyway, setting the takeaway on the table and walking to the bathroom. His palms feel itchy. He forgot his sketchbook at home—just genuinely forgot his backpack, for the first time ever—and now he feels a bit lost without it, to be honest. It’s a little sad.

So he stands in front of the mirror and waits until it’s normal again.

**

It’s later; the moon’s high. Louis wishes he was, too.

“I’m sorry for being weird earlier,” he mumbles, staring at the screen.

Now they’re watching _Tangled_ and life is much, much simpler. Thank you, Harry’s Endless Disney Collection.

Beside him, Harry blinks sleepy eyes at him, reading glasses perched on his nose. “How do you mean?”

“Earlier,” Louis repeats, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry for…you know. Being weird. Getting all emotional about _Fox and the bloody Hound_.” He laughs self-depreciatingly.

But Harry just smiles, a sympathetic sort of thing, and tilts his head until it’s almost on Louis’ shoulder. “It’s just _Fox and the Hound_ , actually,” he teases, voice gentle, and Louis shoves his knees. Still though, Harry sits up straighter. “But seriously, though. It’s no big deal. It wasn’t weird. I didn’t find it…off-putting, or anything. If that’s what you’re getting at.”

Louis swallows and nods, still staring at the screen as he feels Harry’s eyes on him. Absently, he picks at the pillow in his lap.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, quiet. “I guess that’s what I’m getting at. I just…I don’t know.”

“What?” Harry pushes softly, quietly, hand finding Louis’ arm. He wraps careful fingers around it, smooth skin on his shitty tattoos; Harry likes to do that now. After Louis told him how ashamed he was of some of them, how foolish he felt with them, Harry had been a sap and said one night, ‘I think they’re sick and they’re part of you so, yeah, obviously I think they’re great. Beautiful, even,’ he’d blushed, and brushed the back of his hand across them. ‘Nothing to be ashamed of.’ It made Louis’ heart collapse despite his snort of disbelief, but it also made Louis press his arm further into Harry’s touch and now..it’s just a thing.

He smiles when he thinks of it, looking at Harry with a relief that he’s come to associate with him. “Well, I just know that I’m weird when I process emotion,” he continues, trying to piece his words together.

Puzzled, Harry stares at him, and Louis just laughs, breathless. Awkward.

“Like, when I get sad or something? Even if it’s about something trivial like a movie? I just don’t know how to process that. I just get weird. Like, really uncomfortable, and I need some kind of stress relief, I guess? I don’t know how to compute sadness sometimes. And I guess because I’m still a little sad because of everything that happened this year…” He drifts off, unsure of what he’s saying.

“You’re not over it yet,” Harry says quietly, listening intently. “I get it. It’s totally understandable.”

“No, I’m definitely over it,” Louis replies instantly, feeling a heat on his temples. “I am. I’ve been over it. I’ve moved on, Harry. I’m at home and I’m working at the café and I’ve got new friends and I’m just… Like, Zayn texts once in awhile, but I’m over it. It’s the past. I’m fine now.”

There’s a beat where Harry doesn’t say anything and Louis looks over, only to find him chewing on his lips, brows furrowed.

“Are you, though?” Harry asks gently, one last time.

And Louis doesn’t respond.

**

They always talk about Louis. Harry’s always gentle and inquisitive and curious, asking Louis soft questions and touching his arms as he patiently waits for him to speak, never making Louis uncomfortable, never making anything weird.

But tonight? Tonight, they talk about Harry because Louis doesn’t want to hear about himself anymore. He wants to know Harry.

“You’re always asking about me, I’m always telling you my stupid shit,” Louis mumbles, watching as Harry makes him dinner. (“I insist!” Harry had laughed after Louis put up a fuss; “After all those drinks you give me for free? Let me make it up to you somehow!”). “What’s your story, stranger? Aside from being rather adorable, rather smart, and very… _Je ne sais quoi.”_

Harry snorts a laugh as he pokes at the salmon fillets, hair curling on his neck. He’s got a thin brown shirt pushed to his elbows and he smells so damn good that Louis could just permanently attach himself to his back. He doesn’t, though. That would be rude and probably inconvenient. (For Harry.)

“Erm. Well. What do you want to know?” Harry shrugs, shy as he is sometimes. It’s more than endearing.

Louis smiles to himself, watching Harry’s profile with more intensity than is probably custom. “Well. Why did you become a French teacher?”

Harry pauses a moment, sniffing at herbs and spices he plucks from his cabinet. Cute.

“Erm. Well, my father was French. And he died when I was fifteen,” the words are calm, quietly sad. Louis blinks, the smile sliding off his face. Rain on a window. “I used to visit him in France every summer. I just remember…like…” Harry pauses, eyes momentarily veering off into space. “I just remember him pushing me on a swing in this park near his house? And we’d sing this song in French and we always, always did that. It was, like, tradition. Just this small, inconsequential thing that always meant a lot to me for some reason. So, I guess I just…carried that with me? And wanted to teach it. I don’t know, it sounds stupid,” he bristles, scrunching his nose, and Louis just stares at him, unable to resist placing a hand on the small of his back.

Instantly, Harry warms to it, spinning his head to look at Louis. His eyes widen in surprise, in softness.

“Not stupid,” Louis corrects, softer than he’s custom to speak. He smiles, lets his chin bump Harry’s shoulder as he steps closer. “That’s a lovely story, Harry, really. I didn’t know. I’m sorry about your father.”

And Harry keeps staring at him, at his lips, hands still frozen in the air from where they were about to grab the spatula. “Thank you,” he replies, just as softly. “And, for the record, I don’t think your story is stupid, either.”

Louis’ smile fades. “I’m just a dumb kid who partied too hard, lived selfishly, and doesn’t know how to grow up anymore. Pretty stupid. Nothing special like you.”

But Harry shakes his head, mouth set in a frown, and he turns to face Louis, hands on his hips. _“Au contraire,”_ he says, lip quirking a bit because he knows Louis loves it when he speaks French, “I actually find you to be very special, indeed. Much more than I could ever be. Than anyone else could ever be.”

It’s so exaggerative and false that Louis wants to pinch him.

Instead, he kisses him.

The salmon burns.

**

After that, Louis kisses Harry a lot.

“You’re fucking mesmerizing, do you know that?” Louis mutters into his arm as they lay together on the couch, falling asleep. They’re at Harry’s flat and it’s only 4PM; they’d sworn that Harry would grade worksheets while Louis napped (he had a rare and exceptionally early shift that morning) but as soon as Louis had lain on Harry’s lovely crimson couch, Harry nosedived on top of him, making them both squirm as they fought for space. And now they’re pressed together in a helix, Louis speaking into Harry’s arm and creating a little trail of saliva (Harry doesn’t mind because he’s an angel) and they’re mumbling quietly as they drift in and out of sleep, inhaling each other’s scents.

So cheesy. So sweet. Louis is lost.

“How am I mesmerizing?” Harry asks, tone amused. His eyes are closed peacefully, a smile on his lips.

Louis pecks them because he can before he continues. “Because I didn’t even realize how depressed I was until I met you.” Harry opens his eyes and frowns but Louis keeps going, calm and steady with light in his eyes. “And even through my foggy stupor of discontentment”—Harry snorts, always a fan of Louis’ dramatic streak—“I still thought you were beautiful and funny. I still thought about you all day after we met. You cracked through the surface, Harry. You’re mesmerizing.” He finishes his grand statement by kissing Harry’s dimple, something he’s grown increasingly fond of doing. What can he say? He loves the thing. It’s so small and perfect for Louis’ lips, like a little resting place for them whenever they’re lost.

Harry smiles fuller then, turning his head away and into his arm as a flush blooms on his neck. “I had a crush on you before I met you,” he mumbles in a rush.

There’s a brief moment of silence, Louis scrunching his brows as he presses further into Harry. “A crush on me?” he repeats, nonplussed. “How?”

Flushing still more, Harry continues, throwing an arm over his eyes as he confesses, what appears to be, something he’s been keeping to himself for some time. It’s adorable. “I didn’t know you were Charlotte’s brother, obviously. But I was a regular at the café and sometimes you would be there when I’d come and you were just, like… God, Lou, you’re the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen and so I would just _stare_ at you. It was so creepy. I’m surprised nobody noticed.”

“Wait, seriously?” Louis laughs, prying Harry’s arm away from his eyes with force. He’s laughing, utterly delighted as Harry blushes and keeps his eyes firmly shut, sweet as he is. A blooming flower in the spring. Just a sapling. “You seriously had a crush on me? You noticed me at the café??”

A rush of summer breeze and pillowing winds fogs up Louis’ brain as he looks down at Harry. All the good things, all things pure.

“Yes,” Harry mutters lowly. “And when I saw Charlotte talking to you that day… Alright, this is going to sound so terrible and so creepy…but I went over and said hi to her in hopes she would introduce me to you.” He says the last bit in one big exhale, his words bumping into each other as they rush to leave his lips.

And Louis can’t help but howl.

“What, really? Are you serious? Harry, are you serious??” he shout-laughs, wrestling Harry’s arms away and begging him to open his eyes.

Harry fights valiantly, laughing and blushing as they thrash on the couch, their hands eventually linking up, palm to palm, their smiles matching, and eyes caught on each other’s. Breathing and smiling and feeling afloat, Louis looks down at Harry, looks at the color of his eyes. Green might be his favorite color.

“I’m glad it worked out,” is all Louis says, flushed and warm as well. He kisses Harry’s dimple, his chin, his lips.

“Me, too,” Harry sighs as his blush fades, arms wrapping around Louis securely.

It feels like nothing else matters.

**

It’s just after noon at the café and Louis’ sleepy and he forgot his backpack _again_ , but Liam’s telling a terrible story about this fight he almost got into at the pub last night, and Louis can’t stop laughing. So. He can’t complain, really.

“… _All_ because he thought I was hitting on his girl? Like? I was genuinely just trying to go to the bathroom. Not my fault the place was packed to the gills,” Liam exclaims, as if he’s in court, his tone creeping up in volume the more worked up he gets. A few customers glance his way.

“Sounds like you met a new best mate, Liam James,” Louis snorts, capping a latte and handing it off with ease. “Shoulda had me and Harry there—we would’ve kicked his arse for you.”

“You’re right,” Liam nods seriously, handing Louis a cup. “Harry probably could’ve talked him down, even. He’s so good with words—and he’s nice! He would’ve stuck up for me.”

“What, and I wouldn’t?” Louis scoffs, but he smiles. Yeah. Harry’s kinda great.

“I guess,” Liam shrugs, not nearly as enthusiastic about him as he is about Harry, but it still just makes Louis’ smile grow further. His friends and his boyfriend, all wrapped up in one happy family; it’s good. Really good.

It’s just then that Sarah sighs, looking over to Niall with a bit of a forlorn look in her eye. “You know who I miss?” she frowns, tapping fingers against the counter. “Small Coffee Bloke. He never comes in the mornings anymore. I don’t have my Eye Candy anymore.” Her lip protrudes in a pout. It’s not nearly as beautiful a shade as Harry’s.

Covertly, both Liam and Niall look in Louis’ direction, and he feels his cheeks burn as he tries not to smile, instead focusing on his next drink. A secret thrill rushes through him though, a surge of pride and boyish excitement. Harry imprints electricity in his organs and it’s the most wonderful feeling Louis’ ever experienced.

He didn’t know it could be like this.  

“Well, Sarah, I think that’s because he’s getting his coffee from elsewhere now,” Niall replies smoothly at that moment, and Louis and Liam both snort before trying to cover it up with their own respective coughs, attempting to look innocent.

Sarah just looks confused.

Life is good.

**

There is definitely something to be said for a beautiful man. Alright? There is.

Cuz, see, Harry’s got these green eyes that just look soft somehow. Louis’ so used to everything Zayn—everything dark and seductive and jagged and raw and exciting. He’s used to endless nights and heart palpitations and sweaty palms and dirty jeans and dyed hair and words that slithered through the air and wrapped around his neck. God, Louis doesn’t even remember what ‘love’ and ‘romance’ were before Zayn, because that’s all he’d associated them with for so long. All he knew was noise and rushes and chaos. All he knew was being lost.

He forgot what it was like to find someone beautiful.

And he never knew what it was like to be lost in the best way.

“Well, hello,” he greets Harry, outside what is now dubbed “their” taco stand. Louis’ on a lunch break; he’s got to pick up Lottie from school after work. He still needs to tell her. Maybe he will then. Probably not.

“Hey, you,” Harry smiles, dumping his bag on the picnic table before reaching for Louis, planting him with a kiss.

Louis blossoms, becomes a rose, and thinks they make a fine pair as they order tacos, hand in hand, taking the piss out of each other between kisses. Harry’s lips are soft like butter, his eyes warm like sunlight, and he smells like the feeling of finally lying down in your bed after a long, shitty day. He smells like comfort. And he’s beautiful and young and his hair wraps around Louis’ fingers like it was made for such things and his teeth are too big and his voice is too deep and his laugh is too loud and he is, by far, the most glorious creature Louis has yet to behold.

He forgot what it was like to find someone beautiful, but with Harry, he doesn’t think he could ever forget again.

**

It’s only when Louis hasn’t touched his sketchbook in months, _months,_ only after he’s finally begun to feel more settled in his skin again, after he’s finally able to ask his mum, “Hey, are you alright? You wanna talk, ever?” and after he’s begun to view his life, his future, his circumstances, as something more than just a weird, foreboding black spot on a map, that Louis finally sits Lottie down.

“Hey, kiddo,” he greets, heart in his stomach, as he knocks on her doorframe. He feels like the villain in a Disney movie. He’s Scar. Or Maleficent.

Fuck, he’s probably Ursula.

Lottie looks up from where she’s perched on her bed, painting her nails gold. _Keeping Up With The Kardashians_ is on her TV. Louis misses _Moulin Rouge_.

“What’s up, Brother Dear?” she asks, focusing back on her nails.

Right. Let’s do this.

“Nothing, kid,” Louis shrugs, trying to play at nonchalance. Maybe he should fake a yawn. Maybe he’s over-thinking things. “I just, er. Want to talk to you?”

At that, her head snaps up again, suspicion now laden in her bluest eyes. “Oh?” she asks with a very pointed tone, immediately capping her nail polish and sitting up straighter. Yay.

Exhaling through his mouth, Louis nods, slowly making his way inside before gently perching on the edge of her bed, his posture far too stiff for normalcy. Usually he’s like the Hunchback of Notre Dame but right now…he’s a walking stick. But, to be fair, he’s terrified; he’s not really good at…this stuff. Not very gentle or articulate or…anything remotely tactful.

But he tries, anyway.

“So. Do you still fancy Mr. Styles?” he asks after a moment of stiff silence, drumming his fingers on his thigh. He glances around her bed, thinking he should probably arm himself with a pillow to defend himself from the inevitable assault he’s gonna endure. Freshly manicured claws ripping open his skin. She’ll probably make him eat his own heart, and he’ll deserve it.

“Yeah, of course,” Lottie chirps, furrowing her brow as she inspects Louis’ odd behavior with a raised brow. “Hasn’t stopped being hot, has he?”

Hah. Hah-hah. No, he has not. Hah.

Louis closes his eyes, wishing he was a better brother. A better person. Oops.

“So, yeah. Well. Funny thing…” he half-chuckles, dry and humorlessly as he scratches his chin, trying to find words that sound at least halfway decent. But all he can come up with is the actual worst thing he can come up with, so he just blurts hurriedly out, “Funny thing, is that I actually fancy him, too. Hah! Good times. We’re dating. Even better times!” He feels his face heat as Lottie’s eyebrows climb, but he prattles on anyway, because he’s The Worst Thing to Ever Happen to Humanity. “We’ve been together awhile and he’s great, I probably love him, and he’s definitely still hot—you’re right about that—and…er. Yeah. Alright, I’m sorry, yeah, that’s all, thought you should know.”

And with the conclusion of that stream of absolute rubbish, he slides his face into his hands and groans, very much aware of how much he’s just fucked up. Honestly, Louis. Where is your tact.

After a prolonged silence, he finally dares to look up (why hasn’t he been assaulted yet? He’s not being force-fed his own bleeding heart?), and finds Lottie staring him with…with a _smile?_

Shocked, he sits up fully, gaping at her. “You’re not going to murder me?” he asks, bewildered.

“Nope,” she shrugs, still smirking.

He stares. “Seriously?”

“Really seriously,” she nods, going back to painting her nails. That simply.

What the… _hell?_

In no way, shape, or form did Louis see this coming and…well, to be honest, he doesn’t even know what to think. Or say, for that matter.

“Lottie,” he tries again, staring blankly at her as she draws gold over her nails, chin hooked on her knee. She’s still smiling. “Lottie, did you hear me? Did you hear what I just told you? I’m dating Mr. Styles.”

“Oh, yes,” she sing-songs, utterly at ease as Louis’ world shifts around him and leaves him a storm of confusion. Flashing the sweetest smile, she looks up at him. “I figured you two would get on.”

He blinks, lost. “You figured we would… Wait. _What?”_

Shrugging, Lottie just grins wider, going back to her nails. “He was fit, yeah. I fancied him, yeah. But, let’s be real, Lou.” Calmly, she sets the bottle down before blowing on her nails, quirking one eyebrow as she looks at him. “You needed someone to pull you of your funk. And I’m glad Mr. Styles was the one to be able to do it. Good job, brother. I must say, I’m proud.”

And, well, Louis can really only laugh at that, startled and relieved, as he just laughs and laughs and laughs incredulously, because what? Like, _what?_

But it’s incredible, it’s divine intervention, and he couldn’t be fucking happier because the only stress in his life, the only thing holding him back from telling Harry he loves him, the only snag in his tapestry of Eminent Happiness, is gone, it’s just gone, and so Louis laughs because his chest can breathe, because he loves his sister so much, because everything’s probably going to be alright.

Feeling somewhat emotional, he presses her to his chest in a hug that sort’ve becomes a headlock after five seconds. (It was getting too sentimental in here.)

“Lou!” she squawks, face turning pink. “Watch my nails!”

And, yeah. Louis loves his family.

**

“I’m no longer a piece of shit,” he greets Harry that night after the latter opens his door wearing trackies and a thin Jimi Hendirx t-shirt that’s almost see-through with wear. Beaming, Louis presses a kiss to his mouth before sidling past him inside.

“Er. You were never a piece of shit, though,” Harry protests, looking rather puzzled as he follows in his wake. His reading glasses are pushed back in his hair and he’s got a red mouth from drinking wine (a habit he’s picked up to relieve some of his inner turmoil, he claims—he’s picking up on some of Louis’ flair for dramatics, bless) and he’s soft and freshly showered and a little sleepy. Utterly perfect. Mesmerizing.

Louis loves him.

The living room is messy—papers everywhere, TV on and blaring Lion King, laptop on the floor. A half-eaten salad rests on the coffee table, a few crumpled up bits of paper sitting atop the leaves. It looks perfect.

Louis loves him.

He smiles and shucks off his jacket, flopping onto the couch and making grabby hands for Harry. “C’mere,” he grins, and Harry comes all too easily, his smile softening as he lands on Loius’ lap with an “ooph” that exhales against Louis’ neck. Beautiful.

“What’s all this about?” Harry murmurs, smiling when Louis presses kisses onto his jaw, onto his neck, into his hair. He sniffs behind his ear. “You’re all…happy. Happier than usual.”

“I am,” Louis nods, wishing he had French words for Harry that could tell him how beautiful he is. (Harry tried to teach him once but he failed abysmally, especially when he attempted to explain the subjunctive, and they haven’t attempted ever since. Louis wants to learn for him, though. He plans to try again.) “I’m happy because everyone knows about you and they adore you just as much as I do. I told Lottie today,” he mumbles between kisses, smiling. “Don’t worry, she won’t tell anyone at school. She was happy for us.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, breathlessly as Louis pulls him still closer, his smile leaving a trail on the column of Harry’s neck. “I’m glad. Want to meet your family.”

“You will,” Louis nods, ribs unfolding to make room for his heart. “And I want to meet yours.”

“You will,” Harry smiles, lips tasting of wine. Cabernet. “And it will be splendid. We’ll have a June wedding!” He laughs, playful. He fits perfectly in Louis’ lap.

“We’ll have our firstborn by the fall!” Louis trills, swaying them.

“And we’ll host our first potluck,” Harry finishes proudly, sighing dreamily into the abyss.

Louis loves him.

“Hey, I wanted to tell you something, by the way,” Louis mumbles, unsure of how all this works. With Zayn, he never remembered the first time they said it—he thinks they may have been either drunk or high. Either way, he doesn’t remember and it wasn’t monumental, wasn’t special. That was how they worked.

But with Harry? Louis wants it to be a moment. He wants to remember it.

“What’s up?” Harry asks, shifting so he can look Louis in the eye. His glasses are still in his hair. It’s cute.

“Um, let me think—how do you say it again?” Louis ponders aloud, a playful smile at his lips as Harry watches on, curious. “Ah! Yes. I remember now.” He grins, turning fully to Harry and gripping him more firmly. “I believe it goes, Je t’aime.”

Harry blinks, eyes following the movement of Louis’ mouth. “Je t’aime?” he questions, visibly swallowing. “Yeah?” His eyes flicker up, meeting Louis’.

“Yeah,” Louis smiles, exhaling. Breathing so easy.

“And you know what that means, right?” Harry asks, still peering at him closely. “Because I know you’re sorta shit at French and you once accidentally called me a vagina—“

But Louis cuts him off with a kiss, swirling and beautiful and maddening, because he’s utterly mesmerized with the boy in his lap, the boy on his mouth.

“Harry,” he mumbles with a chuckle when they finally part, their lips still brushing as their foreheads press together. Harry has to close his eyes with how big he’s smiling, skin flourishing in roses. “I can’t believe you would say such a thing.” He pauses, listening to Harry’s breath. “It wasn’t an accident—I one hundred percent knew that I was calling you a vagina.”

And Harry just smacks him and laughs and pushes him away before they finally land on the floor together, tangled up still. Like always.

“I love you, too,” Harry replies happily, the words drifting in the air above.

Louis watches them before he breathes them in and houses them in his lungs forever.

Yes. He loves Harry.

**

Just two weeks later, Louis gets another text.

_Zayn: “Hope everything’s good. Miss you”_

And Louis reads it, chewing on his sandwich as he sits in the park, waiting for Harry to meet him there because they’re gonna go on a hike and pick flowers and probably have sex in the woods, maybe. (Louis has every intention of convincing him to, at least.)

He reads the text again and again, waiting for that feeling of discomfort, of loss, of confusion, as he sits on a bench, the birds chirping all around him, a dog barking in the distance. The flowers are green and the grass grows beneath his shoes and he doesn’t have his backpack, doesn’t need his sketchbook anymore, and Harry’s love is still sitting in his lungs. He breathes him every day and, every day, Louis breathes himself, and it’s like Life is renewed now, is manageable and good, and he feels like a person for the first time in a long, long time. Maybe ever.

And so, when that feeling of sadness and guilt doesn’t come, the text still staring back at him, he makes a decision.

He swallows his sandwich and stares at the words for four more seconds before he begins typing out his message.

_“Everything’s very good. I’m happy. Hope all is well for you too. Good luck with everything, alright? Goodbye, Z. L”_

When he sends it, he feels a weight lift off of his chest, a weight he didn’t even realize was still there. He feels a little bit more oxygen reach his lungs, settling beside the spot reserved for Harry. He feels calm, the little leftover fissures in his brain silencing once and for all. Peace.

And then he hears footsteps coming his way, and when he looks up—only to find Harry in his teacher gear, apologetic smile on his face—he feels even lighter still.

 _“Je suis désolé,”_ he mumbles, pressing lips to Louis’ as he trails warm hands down his sides. Louis’ blood rushes to meet the touch. “Forgot my hiking clothes at home. Mind if we stop there first? You look sexy, by the way. We should hike more often,” he whistles, pulling at Louis’ shorts with playful, sneaky hands; Louis never wears shorts.

“Sexy? I look like a dork,” he snorts, and Harry wiggles his brows, pulling him even closer.

“A sexy dork,” Harry amends, lavishing on a faux-sensual tone, and Louis stares at him, trying not to break into a smile.

“You know, that’s probably a good way to describe you, actually,” he replies casually, and Harry’s jaw drops just as Louis breaks into a snigger, avoiding a pinch to the bum.

“Stop pretending you don’t love me. It’s unflattering, Louis.”

“Oh, shit. I can’t be unflattering. I guess I’ve gotta love you.”

“Guess you gotta,” Harry beams back, hands tugging Louis’ hands as he begins to tug him onward, walking backwards in the most clumsy way; he’ll probably fall. Louis will catch him. “Now come ooon, let’s goooo. Wanna hike before it gets dark.”

“Sure thing, love. Ready when you are,” Louis chuckles back, letting himself be lead as he feels the warmth from Harry’s skin bleed into his own.  

And as they walk off, stumbling over each other and bumping shoulders, and the sun hits Harry’s eyes in this way that makes them look emerald when they look back him, with all the goddamn love in the world, Louis knows, alright? He just knows.

This is who he is, and this is how it’s meant to be.

_La vie est belle._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, pals :) 
> 
> I'll see you all soon <3


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